Warcraft for fans

Author's Note: part of the previous entry did not actually happen; Sybeth did not make it to Undercity.

( I could get used to this. )

I recall I was in Southshore at the time. It was morning... early morning, cold and bright and clear. There were rumours of activity over the hills in Tarren Mill, but as the locals said, there were always rumours of activity in Tarren Mill. Perhaps there'd be a skirmish by the tower, once in a while someone would creep into the other town and burn a few buildings or kill a few people before someone stopped them, but mostly the rumours remained just that.

On the morning I died, the rumours became true.

The first thing I sensed was the thud of catapult projectiles; the second, a hiss, and the stink of some filth in the air. I confess, my first thought was to run to the kitchen and see what they'd burnt this time, but one look downstairs proved me very, very wrong. All I could see through the windows was green - glowing, spitting green fog. I'd heard stories about the Wrathgate, the terrible weapons the Forsaken had used against living and undead Scourge alike, but hearing stories and actually being able to smell the foul stuff creeping through the walls are very, very different things.

I wove a water-breathing charm around myself - first thing I thought of - and ran outside. People were stumbling about amidst the gloomy mist, shrieking and clutching their throats as their flesh rotted off them. And then they came out of the mist, laughing their dead, hollow laughter, clattering their bones on their weapons.

Forsaken.

Let's make something clear right from the start: I'm not a hero. I've walked with heroes, fought with heroes, but I'm not like them. What I've done, I've done for knowledge, or for power, or now and again for my own safety. What power I have, I've had to keep secret; no matter what use they put us to, the grand Alliance is not overly fond of felmancers, and calling on demonic power in the middle of an Allied township is a short route to a quick death.

I'd rather risk a hanging than face certain death on the battlefield, though, and so I fought - tried to fight my way clear. I called up what power I could and turned it against them - dead flesh blackened in flame, shadows loomed out of the mist and twisted dead bones apart - but it wasn't enough. There were other powers I could have drawn on, other cards I could have played, but the forbidden words that would change me into something that might just escape the ruin of Southshore stumbled on my lips as a fresh canister of that awful gas came crashing down on the cart beside me.

Couldn't stop myself: I took a breath to cry out. My eyes throbbed, and the skin around my mouth began to blister. My charm was failing. I tried to pull myself out of the wreckage, tried to free my hands to cast the spell again, but the words caught on my lips even as my lips turned to burning dust and sloughed away.

No voice left to scream with, no-one alive left to hear it. Darkness took me - burning, roaring darkness of a sort I'd hoped to reserve for my enemies.

And then, two days later, I woke up.



-- first entry in the memoirs of Sybeth Starkadder (Deceased).